


Tiger Balm

by ignaz



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/ignaz
Summary: It wasn't the first time he'd been horny after a competition. He was fifteen, he was horny all the time.Yuri gets a world record, a gold medal, and laid. He’d had no idea having a friend could be this much fun.





	Tiger Balm

**Author's Note:**

> voslen’s [NSFW "Welcome to the Madness" art](http://voslenonice.tumblr.com/post/163162930786/finally-finishing-that-wttm-porn-sketch-i-did-the) killed me dead, and then I rose from the grave to write porn for the first time in years. Thanks to ainsley for telling me it was okay to post. (For NSFW Yurio Week, Day 1: first times.)

He’s not stupid. He knows what he looks like, and he knows when people want to fuck him. Guys usually; sometimes girls, though they mostly wanted to pick him up and cuddle him or _marry_ him or something equally disgusting. Guys, though. Guys were practical. Guys were obvious. He could always tell when a guy wanted to fuck him, their eyes raking over his body like a predator with a tasty meal. He knows what they say about him: that he's cute, that he's _pretty_ , what a great lay he’d be.

He hasn't taken any of them up on it yet—skating came first. Not that he hadn’t considered it. He was considering it now.

He’d started thinking about it three days ago, walking back to the hotel after that awful dinner the piggy had dragged him to after crashing his and Otabek’s … whatever it was. Not a date. Just two friends hanging out.

And later, after Victor declared that he was _engaged_ to the pig, and then JJ barged in with that fiancée of his, Yuri had started to really think. Not about getting engaged, fuck no, he was only fifteen. But everyone around him seemed to have someone. Maybe it was time for him to have someone, too. And maybe that someone could be Otabek.

Later still, after the medal ceremony, he started feeling it. Like an itch. It wasn't the first time he'd been horny after a competition. He was fifteen, he was horny all the time. But this felt bigger, got inside him in a way he'd never felt before, the itch under his skin in a way he couldn't scratch. He was victorious and restless. He'd won, finally, his first gold of his senior debut season, but he was still frustrated somehow. It wasn't just knowing he had to skate his same exhibition program tomorrow, to the same music chosen by Lilia, in the same costume that didn't really suit him. It was an ache inside of him, a tension in his body that he couldn't shake.

Then there was Otabek. His friend. The way he’d looked at Yuri that first day hadn’t said “interested” to Yuri, not in the way he was used to from guys. Otabek had looked at him the way Grandpa sometimes looked at him, or Lilia when Yuri had done something right in her ballet studio. There was nothing sexy about that look. But there _was_ something sexy about Otabek. Maybe it was the motorcycle.

Then Otabek had ditched Yuri at the hotel after the final and gone out without him, like Yuri was too young to take to a club. Well, the hell with that. If Otabek had thought of him like a dumb baby before, too young to hang out with and too young to fuck, that was all over now. Yuri had made sure of it. He knew it wasn’t a mistake to go back to the hotel and change and do his makeup before heading to El Poblenou. The look on Otabek’s face when he’d recognized Yuri at the club, wearing the slutty shirt and pants they’d bought together earlier that week—well, it wasn’t a look he’d necessarily seen before, but he wasn’t stupid and he could read it loud and clear.

Otabek wanted him. He would scratch that itch, relieve the frustration, soothe the gnawing ache. Yuri just needed to make it happen.

And to choreograph an entire exhibition skate by tomorrow night.

Otabek had taken the motorcycle to the club, so it was the motorcycle they rode back to the beach by the hotel, where Yuri shivered a little and bared his soul to a guy he’d barely known for four days. But Otabek was his friend, and he listened in that patient, quiet way he had as Yuri explained what he wanted and asked for his help. In the club he’d felt powerful, sexy, in control, but here by the ocean, with only sound of the waves crashing and their own hushed voices, this place that reminded him of Hasetsu and Japan and that terrible, wonderful time only eight months earlier, he felt naked and vulnerable, spilling his guts out on the sand.

But it seemed he never gave more than Otabek could give back, and so Otabek had taken his hand and clasped it, and then they’d walked back to the hotel in the dim early hours of the morning.

“I want to put a triple lutz here,” Yuri said in his hotel room, then did a little single jump to demonstrate. The room was cool and Yuri was still wearing the purple jacket over his shredded shirt.

Otabek, sitting in the chair at the little desk, took notes and looked thoughtful. ”What about your costume?”

“That thing?” Yuri sneered. “That was Lilia’s idea. I’m not going to wear it, not for this. This is _my_ program. Well,” he added, “ _our_ program.”

Was that a smile on Otabek’s face? Yuri smiled back, just a little, just to be safe. Otabek’s expression was fond. Yuri’s vision swam a little and he saw, superimposed on Otabek’s face, Grandpa’s kind smile and Lilia’s cool approval. Shit.

“What are you going to wear, then?”

Yuri thought about it for a second, then looked down at himself, from the sparkly lapels of his jacket to his bare, battered feet, pale against the dark hotel room carpet. “How about this?” He turned around, giving Otabek a good view of his ass. With a shrug, he slipped the jacket off his shoulders and down his arms, casting a glance back at Otabek as he did so. He’d pulled that move at the club earlier, and it had seemed to do something to Otabek then, lighting that unfamiliar fire in his eyes that Yuri could see even from across the room with sunglasses on.

But when he turned back around to look at Otabek properly, Otabek was shaking his head at the ground. He looked back up at Yuri with a rueful expression.

“I don’t know how you’ll be able to move in those pants,” he said.

Otabek maybe had a point. The pants were skin-tight, made of a fake leather that was not exactly great for movement. Yuri’d had no problem dancing in the club earlier, but that was just dancing. He hadn’t exactly been doing split jumps.

He did one now. It went okay, not as much height as he could get on the ice with some speed built up, but still pretty good. The pants didn’t restrict his movement too much, and they didn’t rip.

Otabek’s eyes lit up, watching him, but not the way they had at the club—more the way Victor looked at his damn dog when it did a trick. Yuri was losing him. This could _not_ be happening.

With a flash of inspiration, Yuri turned around and shrugged the jacket over his shoulders again. This time he let it fall all the way to the floor, leaving his back exposed through the holes in his shirt. He turned again and with one foot neatly lifted the jacket, tossing it out of the way.

He closed his eyes, thinking back to how he’d felt at the club, how he’d felt with Otabek’s eyes on him then. What came to mind wasn’t the frantic song he’d chosen for his exhibition, but a slower track Otabek had played later, the bass pulsing through his blood like a heartbeat. He began to move to the music in his head, a slow sway of his body, an arch of his back. He ran his hands through his hair and tossed it over his shoulder, bent his knees and rolled his hips, undulated his torso. He let his hands slide down his pants-clad thighs and then up again, liking the feel of the material under his fingertips. He slid one hand up under his shirt, all the way up to his collarbone, then back down.

When he opened his eyes, Otabek was watching him, his mouth slightly open, and there it was, there it was again, that look Yuri had seen at the club: surprise wound up with lust.

Yuri felt slightly giddy, but kept a tight lock on his facial expressions. He stood upright and rolled his head, stretching and exposing his neck. Then, eyes locked on Otabek’s, he planted one foot at a 90-degree angle and raised his opposite leg, holding onto his heel and slowly raising it high over his head in a perfect standing split.

“I think I move pretty good in these pants,” he said.

Otabek closed his mouth and swallowed, audible in the quiet hotel room. By the light of the desk lamp, Yuri saw his throat move. The rest of him stayed perfectly still in the chair.

Screw Victor. He would have _kicked ass_ at Eros.

Yuri slowly lowered his extended leg, and then, since it was already moving, he moved the other leg as well. He approached Otabek like he’d approach a stray cat—every step painfully slow.

Otabek remained still, although he parted his lips again like he wasn’t able to breathe right. He’d long ago dropped the pen he’d been using to take notes for Yuri’s program, and his hands gripped the armrests of the chair. He was still wearing the fingerless gloves he liked. Yuri wondered if he was cold.

Yuri reached him and stood between his knees, looking down at him. Then he lifted his leg again, this time to straddle the chair. He sat himself carefully in Otabek’s lap, his own knees spread wide, no more than a few centimeters between their faces.

“But I move pretty good out of them, too,” he added.

Otabek still hadn’t budged. If not for the shallow movements of his chest as he breathed, he could have been a statue. Yuri stayed just as still, willing Otabek to touch him, kiss him, do _something_. He’d made all the moves here. Why wouldn’t Otabek respond?

Then all at once Otabek blinked and licked his lips. “Yuri,” he said, and then again: “Yuri. We shouldn’t.”

Yuri’s determined, seductive smirk threatened to turn into a scowl. “Why not?”

Otabek licked his lips again, his eyes moving all over Yuri’s face. “It’s late,” he said quietly. “And we haven’t finished your program for tomorrow. Tonight,” he corrected. It was long after midnight.

“So? Who says we’re done choreographing?” He was slightly taller than Otabek this way, straddling his lap, and it made him bold and daring. Yuri inched forward on Otabek’s lap. Otabek sucked in a quick breath and his hands left the armrests, hovering for a second before he gripped them again.

Yuri moved in close. Otabek had his head arched back, but there was only so far he could go to get away when Yuri was on top of him. Yuri leaned in so that his mouth was just brushing Otabek’s and said, “I’m thinking of moves right now.”

Otabek’s breath tasted sweet when he huffed a short laugh. Yuri pulled back enough to see his face. His mouth was slack, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were very, very dark. “You know,” he said, stopping to swallow again, “when I talked to you the other day, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Yuri leaned forward again, this time to put his mouth next to Otabek’s ear. “And now?”

Otabek half-laughed again and turned his face to the side. Yuri felt the soft brush of Otabek’s lips against his hair, his ear.

“Now,” Otabek said, “now I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to think about anything else.”

Otabek’s fingers wound through Yuri’s hair before he turned Yuri’s face to his and kissed him on the mouth. It was sweet and far too gentle for Yuri’s liking—although he did like the hand guiding his head. In response he grabbed Otabek, one hand around the back of his neck and the other on the back of his head, loving the contrast between the shorter and longer hair, and pulled Otabek closer, deepening the kiss.

He never gave more than Otabek gave back. Otabek opened his mouth wider, letting Yuri take. It wasn’t enough. He wanted Otabek, and he wanted Otabek to want him as much in return, to burn the way he was burning. His body felt alive in a way it only ever had on the ice. He was electrified, aching for more kisses, more skin contact.

Otabek was the one to break the kiss. “Yuri,” he said under his breath, sounding amazed. He cupped Yuri’s face in his large hands. Yuri growled in frustration and smashed his mouth to Otabek’s again, hitching himself further into Otabek’s lap.

He forced Otabek’s head to where he wanted it, angled just right, and pushed his tongue inside Otabek’s mouth. Otabek tentatively returned the gesture, and Yuri exalted, laving Otabek’s tongue with his own, touching his face. It was smooth, like maybe Otabek had shaved before going out to the club earlier that night. His lips were impossibly soft, softer than Yuri had imagined. He brought his fingers to Otabek’s lips, touching the lower one with just the pads of his first two fingers, and then, since he was already there, he stuck them carefully in Otabek’s mouth.

Otabek made a sound that Yuri immediately decided he needed to hear again and again. He licked Yuri’s fingertips, tongue caressing them, wet and obscene. He sucked on them, just a little, looking up at Yuri with hooded eyes.

Then he pulled away, breathing hard and looking at Yuri with that same surprised-but-turned-on look he’d had earlier. “Yuri,” he said again, like it was a secret. “ _Yura_.”

“Fuck,” Yuri breathed, and then ground down into Otabek’s lap, where he could feel Otabek getting hard. His wet fingers trailed over Otabek’s cheek and chin. Otabek’s head rolled back and he moaned.

“You’re going to kill me,” he said quietly.

“Oh yeah?” Yuri rocked his hips against Otabek again. His own dick was straining against the front of his pants. “Better not be until I’m—done with you,” he huffed into Otabek’s ear, drawing another of those sounds from him.

Otabek pressed a kiss to Yuri’s jaw, to his throat, to the junction of his neck and shoulder. His hand touched Yuri’s back, pulled away as if he’d been burned, then came back again, lightly stroking the bare exposed skin. The other hand rested on Yuri’s hip, keeping him in place.

He still had on his fingerless gloves and fleece jacket. Yuri grabbed the zipper and tugged on it. “Take this off,” he demanded, helping Otabek out of it without budging from his lap. Underneath, he was wearing a sleeveless black tee. His arms were bigger than Yuri’s, more muscular. Yuri ran his hands over them, squeezed them a little. Did Otabek lift weights? Maybe Yuri should add something to his own gym regimen.

“Are we really doing this?” Otabek asked, a little breathless.

“You bet your ass we’re doing this,” Yuri said.

Otabek reached for the cuff of his left glove, but Yuri’s hand stilled him. “No,” he said. “Leave them on. I like them.” He liked them a lot. They were leather, real leather, not the fake shiny stuff his pants were made out of, and they were soft from wear. He held one of Otabek’s hands up to his face and rubbed his cheek against the palm, closing his eyes. It felt good. He wondered what it would feel like on the rest of his body. Fuck, he was so hard it hurt.

“So you gonna fucking take me to bed, or what?” he panted into Otabek’s mouth.

He startled and let out a gasp as his world tilted, as Otabek grabbed him under his ass and stood, hoisting Yuri in his arms and walking them the few steps from the chair to the bed. Yuri bounced a little as he was dropped onto the mattress, and then Otabek was on top of him, kissing his neck as his hands ran up and under Yuri’s shirt. Yuri couldn’t help it—he giggled a little, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth to silence it.

Otabek pulled back and smirked at him. “Ticklish?”

“Fuck you,” Yuri said, snarling a little, and he yanked Otabek down by the neck of his shirt and crushed their mouths together again.

Otabek made a muffled grunt of protest, but his fingers stopped teasing up and down Yuri’s abs and instead went all the way up to his nipples, rubbing his thumbs over them before pinching both at the same time. Yuri gasped again, bucking up into the sensation. His skin felt like it was on fire. “Ah, _fuck_.”

Otabek’s mouth moved down to Yuri’s neck again, sucking, using his teeth a little.

“No marks,” Yuri said automatically, panting. “No visible marks, nothing that will show while I’m skating tomorrow.”

Not that he didn't want Otabek to bite him. Now that he was thinking about it, now that Otabek was nibbling on his shoulder, he kind of wanted it a lot. He was about to reconsider when Otabek pushed Yuri’s shirt up until it was bunched around his neck and then lowered his mouth to one of Yuri’s nipples.

“Mmm,” he said, teasing it with the pointed tip of his tongue, “in this outfit, that doesn’t leave much.” He sat back, running the palms of both leather-glove-clad hands down the length of Yuri’s torso, from collarbones to waistband. One thumb dipped into Yuri’s navel.

Yuri looked up at him, defiant, and tossed his head to get his hair out of his face. “Why don’t you take off my pants and see if you can find somewhere else to leave a mark?”

Even though Yuri thought he’d made his intentions more than clear, every step towards sex seemed to knock Otabek sideways, like he couldn’t believe they were actually happening. Every new kiss, every new touch, every new item of clothing removed—or even just the suggestion—left Otabek staring at him dumbfounded, with an open mouth. Yuri squirmed under his gaze.

“Come on,” he said. “Are you gonna do it, or not?”

Getting Yuri’s pants off was more of a challenge than he’d expected. They were skin-tight and had no buttons or zips, so Yuri had to lift his hips off the bed while Otabek slowly pulled them down, maybe more slowly than was strictly necessary. Yuri immediately reached down to adjust himself. His balls felt heavy. His cock was hard and leaking in his briefs. He felt suddenly self-conscious. He wanted this, his _dick_ obviously wanted this, but it was the first time he’d been seen this way by anyone other than his cat.

But Otabek just stared at him with his mouth open again, eyes moving back and forth between Yuri’s face, his chest, and his groin, like he couldn’t make up his mind what he wanted to look at most. He ran his hands over Yuri’s bare thighs, strong fingers and soft leather gloves. Yuri shivered.

“You’re so hot,” Otabek said quietly. “You’re like—I’ve never seen anything like you before.”

Fuck. This wasn’t going the way Yuri had expected. He felt a tightness in his chest and clenched the sheets in both fists. Then he sat up and grabbed Otabek around the neck, dragging him back down into another kiss. That was better. Now they couldn’t look at each other.

But then Otabek had to go and make it weird again, turning the kiss from dirty to sweet, moving his lips to Yuri’s cheeks, his forehead, his nose. “You’re amazing,” he mumbled into Yuri’s hair, close to Yuri’s ear.

Yuri squirmed under him. “ _Touch_ me,” he demanded.

And he finally did, one hand moving oh-so-slowly down Yuri’s chest, over his abs, down to where he wanted it. Otabek’s hand closed around Yuri’s cock over his briefs, gently, rubbing him through the straining fabric while his other hand moved back to Yuri’s nipple, rolling it between his fingers.

“ _More_ ,” Yuri panted, and Otabek gave him a long, deep kiss before shifting down Yuri’s body, kissing his way down Yuri’s throat, chest, and abdomen.

“God,” Yuri said, when he propped himself up on his elbows and looked down the length of his torso and saw Otabek staring back up at him from just above Yuri’s hips. Without taking his eyes away, Otabek stuck his tongue out and licked a trail from Yuri’s navel to the waistband of his underpants.

“O—Otabek,” he said, voice shaking, and then Otabek placed a kiss on Yuri’s dick through his briefs and Yuri choked back a cry. _Yes!_ “Fuck. Take them off,” he begged.

But Otabek sat up and back, both hands now on Yuri’s hips. “Turn over,” he said in a low voice.

Yuri’s cock twitched and he scrambled to get his knees under him so he could turn onto his front. He had no idea what Otabek had planned, but every possibility was exciting. He trusted that Otabek wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want.

For a few seconds, Otabek didn’t do anything at all. Yuri glanced back over his shoulder to see what the holdup was. Otabek was just staring at him, staring at his back and his ass, like he’d never seen anything better in his life.

Yuri felt that tightness in his chest again, but he tried to smirk, and lifted his hips and ass higher. “Like what you see?”

He couldn’t stop the sound that left his mouth when Otabek lightly smacked his ass. It didn’t hurt, but he hadn’t been expecting it, and oh _god_ had he not been expecting his reaction. He dropped immediately to his elbows and buried his heated face in the sheets, trying to breathe through it without coming in his underpants.

“Don’t be cocky,” Otabek said, rubbing the place where he’d spanked Yuri with the palm of his hand, the soft leather of his gloves moving like silk over the back of Yuri’s thighs.

“Then fucking _do something_ already,” Yuri said into the sheets, breathless. He was face down, ass up on a hotel bed and still wearing most of his clothes. Otabek was almost completely dressed. And Otabek didn’t seem to be _moving_ , just doing that staring thing he’d been doing all night, like Yuri was just there to look at and not begging to be touched.

Yuri turned his head to tell Otabek to get a move on already, and at that exact moment Otabek leaned over him and took the top of Yuri’s briefs in between his teeth.

“Oh, fuck,” Yuri whispered. “Oh—”

Otabek had to use his fingers, a little, but he managed to get a good grip on Yuri’s underwear with his mouth. A little tugging, and a little wriggling, and Yuri’s dick slipped out the front, stiff and drooling and oh _god_ this was the hottest thing to ever happen to him, the hottest thing to ever happen to anyone, probably. He was going to get laid, he was totally going to get laid and Otabek was some kind of a _sex god_.

Still with his teeth, Otabek slid the briefs over Yuri’s ass, down the backs of Yuri’s thighs, although he had to get off the bed and onto his knees to do it. He dragged them down Yuri’s legs, Yuri shifting from one knee to the other. The underwear slipped off his ankle and onto the floor.

Yuri was flat on his front by then, grinding against the bed, clenching the sheets so as not to touch his cock. He was keenly aware of Otabek, on his knees beside the bed, pressing his thumbs into the soles of Yuri’s feet, circling his fingers around Yuri’s ankles, sweeping his hands up Yuri’s calves to the backs of his knees. Those hands moved higher, thumbs stroking up his inner thighs, and suddenly it was too much, too intense. He was going to come and Otabek was still wearing a shirt. Yuri made a sound not unlike a sob, grabbed his dick hard enough to hurt, and flung himself over, leaning up to haul Otabek back onto the bed with him.

“Come on, come on, take off your clothes,” he found himself saying, pulling Otabek’s black sleeveless shirt up while trying to remove his own shirt at the same time. He was still wearing the gold chain with the cross on it, and it smacked him in the face as he yanked his shirt over his head.

“These too?” Otabek asked, raising his hands, which were still wearing the fingerless gloves, and Yuri almost rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, those too,” he said. They were hot and felt nice but Otabek actually _used_ those gloves, and Yuri wasn’t sure how he’d feel about having to clean jizz off of them.

He reached for Otabek’s fly, but his fingers were clumsy and uncoordinated and Otabek’s jeans were tight, plus his broad, bare chest and toned abs were _right there_ and completely distracting, so Otabek had to stand up and unbutton the jeans himself, his own movements a little shaky.

He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and pulled them down a centimeter before freezing. Yuri dragged his eyes up to Otabek’s face, not quite on the verge of panic—oh god, what if Otabek wanted to _stop_? Yuri hadn’t even seen his _dick_ yet—but Otabek just met his eyes for a long moment. He kept his eyes locked on Yuri’s as he slid his jeans and underwear down to his ankles and stepped out of them.

And—oh. _Oh_. Otabek really was a sex god, and Yuri was the luckiest guy on the planet. Because that right there was a world record body, and a gold medal dick, and all Yuri’d had to do to earn them was a little shimmy and stretch in some tight pants. He blinked a couple times to make sure this wasn’t some super-realistic wet dream. His mouth watered. Otabek’s cock was bigger than his, darker where his was pinker, and—Yuri realized after a moment of confusion—cut. It stood out from neatly groomed pubic hair, over a ballsack that looked the perfect size for Yuri to cup in his hand. His cock was perfect, long and thick and gorgeous, and Otabek wasn’t even fully hard yet. How much bigger was it going to get?

Yuri realized he was staring, _just_ staring, the way Otabek had just stared at him before, and he sat up properly on the bed and scooched closer to wear Otabek was standing. His hands moved without him meaning to move them, only they didn’t know where to go, what to touch first, or if he was even _allowed_ to touch, with Otabek just standing there like some sexy statue, and while they were hovering a few centimeters from Otabek’s body, Otabek’s own hands came up and clasped them.

“Lie down with me,” Otabek said quietly, holding both of Yuri’s hands with both of his own.

“Oh,” Yuri said like an idiot. A stupid, stupid idiot. “Okay.”

Otabek maneuvered them so that they were lying side by side on the bed, still holding hands. Yuri realized he was shivering, that he was cold in the chilly hotel room. Otabek rubbed Yuri’s hands gently between his own.

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” Otabek said in a low voice.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Yuri said. “I want to do it, I’m just cold.”

Otabek sat up and let go of Yuri’s hand just long enough to grab the sheet and duvet that had bunched up at the end of the bed and drag them up to cover both of them. Then he held Yuri’s hand again.

“Have you ever done anything like this?” Otabek asked.

“Duh,” Yuri scoffed, looking down at their hands. Otabek’s were bigger and darker than his own. Like Otabek’s dick. Yuri swallowed. He could see his own knuckles under thin white skin. Otabek’s thumbs stroked over them.

Yuri closed his eyes tight. “I’ve kissed people,” he said, half choking on it. “But I’ve never …”

“It’s fine,” Otabek said. “It’s all fine.”

“But I want to. With you.”

“Let’s just see where it goes,” Otabek said, and then kissed Yuri softly on the mouth, and kissed him some more, and kissed him until he stopped shaking and felt warm again.

Otabek’s grip on his hands loosened, and Yuri found himself free to touch Otabek’s shoulders, his biceps, his pecs. There was so much bare skin to touch, all of it warm and softer than it had a right to be, so much hard muscle underneath it, that he started to feel almost dizzy, lighter than air, like he might float away or something. He jammed his tongue into Otabek’s mouth and tugged at his body until Otabek moved on top of him, and that felt better, like he was grounded and safe. It also had the effect of making Otabek’s dick come into direct contact with his own, which made Yuri cry out and thrust upward and bite down on Otabek’s lower lip. Otabek pulled his mouth quickly away, and Yuri cursed.

“Sorry—fuck, sorry,” he said, but Otabek was still on top of him and their hips were still moving, so it seemed like it was okay.

“Ah, _Yura_ ,” Otabek murmured, and pushed himself up on his hands. Yuri grabbed frantically at his neck to keep him from pulling away any further, but Otabek wasn’t leaving, he was looking down between their bodies. Yuri looked too, and then he had to bite his own lip to keep from coming.

He’d seen his own dick from this angle hundreds of times, jerking off in bed, but he’d never seen or even imagined this—Otabek’s dick, alongside his own, hard and leaking at the tip, big and thick and so fucking _hot_ Yuri couldn’t stand it. He ground his hips up against Otabek and dropped his head back on a cry, then whipped it back up again, wanting to see more.

“Can I,” he said, reaching a hand tentatively down between their bodies. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know if this was even a normal thing guys did together, but he couldn’t help it, he just had to _touch—_

Otabek let out a shaky breath, closed his eyes tight for a second, and then nodded.

With the first touch of Yuri’s fingers to Otabek’s cock, Otabek’s arms trembled, and for a moment Yuri thought they were going to give out and he was going to collapse. Yuri carefully wrapped his hand around him, and Otabek inhaled sharply through his nose.

He’d spent a significant amount of time over the past few of years thinking about doing something almost exactly this, but even with all that mental prep work, it was still a little weird, holding a dick that wasn’t his. The angle was different, for one. And Otabek’s was _definitely_ bigger. But it was the same otherwise, silk over steel, and when he gave it a little squeeze, Otabek groaned and hung his head, and with the first hesitant stroke of Yuri’s hand, Otabek thrust into his grip, his face contorted in what looked almost—but not quite—like pain. Yuri didn’t know where to look—at that face, or at the shiny head of Otabek’s cock sliding through his own fist.

He tried to touch himself, too, but he didn’t have enough hand to work with, so he slipped his other hand down, taking his own cock and pressing it against Otabek’s, squeezing them together and biting back another embarrassing sound. God, that was it, that was perfect, the slick slide of skin on skin, Otabek’s fat cockhead nudging his own with every thrust, his hands gliding over both of them, and Otabek above him, face flushed and lips parted, eyes staring into Yuri’s very fucking _soul—_

Otabek arched his neck, made a quiet noise low in his throat, and then Yuri felt his cock twitch and suddenly his hands were a whole lot wetter than they’d been a moment earlier. He looked back down between their bodies in time to see his fingers, his belly, and both their dicks covered in come, in _Otabek’s_ _come_ , and then, with one last jerk of his wrist, came so hard he thought he might have blacked out.

Maybe he did black out. When he could open his eyes again, there were little floating lights messing with his vision, and Otabek’s warm, wet mouth was leaving kisses all over his face. He had dropped down to his elbows, his lower half heavy on top of Yuri, trapping Yuri’s hands and probably smearing jizz all over both of them. Yuri didn’t care. He couldn’t even feel his legs.

He smiled, and the smile turned into a grin. He’d done it! He’d done _it!_ He’d had _sex_. Not exactly the kind of sex you saw in porn, but they’d both got naked and got off, so he figured it counted. He was officially no longer a virgin. He’d had sex. With _Otabek_. He’d made Otabek come. He’d made _Otabek_ , the hottest guy he’d ever seen, _come all over him_. Yuri was officially the coolest, baddest, sexiest guy on earth. A world record, a gold medal, _and_ sex.

He’d had no idea having a friend could be this much fun.

Otabek rolled off him at last and flopped onto his back next to Yuri. Yuri immediately turned onto his side, ignoring the come drying on his skin, and put his hand on Otabek’s chest, which was slick with cooling sweat and still very tempting to touch. He had an idea that this had all been over with too soon, although really that was probably his own fault. He stroked his fingers over Otabek’s collarbone and down to his pecs, then rubbed his fingers over one flat nipple. There was a smattering of soft, dark hair around both nipples, the same hair that led from just below Otabek’s navel to his cock. Soft and smaller now, it looked less intimidating than it had earlier, but no less exciting. Slowly, Yuri moved his hand down Otabek’s body until he could take Otabek’s dick in his hand again.

Before he’d even managed to close his fingers around it, Otabek’s had covered his own. “Yura.”

“What?” He tried to make it sound innocent.

Otabek sighed and lifted Yuri’s hand away from his cock. “Your program. For the exhibition.”

Yuri groaned and rolled onto his back, flinging an arm over his eyes. He turned and squinted at the glowing red digits of the alarm clock beside the bed. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

It wasn’t that late, really—Otabek’s set had started early, and they hadn’t spent that much time at the beach before coming back to the hotel. But there were precious few hours left until sunrise, and then Yakov would expect him at breakfast, and then there was required rehearsal time, and then ...

And he was in bed, naked, with Otabek—his _friend_ —who was also naked, and _hot_ , and there were precious few hours until that would end, too, when they’d both have to go home and probably not see each other again for months.

He looked over at Otabek, who was watching him with a calm expression. “I guess … I could just skate Lilia’s program again. I’ve got it down perfect. It’s fine.”

Otabek reached for him and threaded his fingers through Yuri’s hair where part of it had fallen over his eye. He stroked it back out of Yuri’s face, and then kept running his fingers through it. “Is that what you want to do?”

His body thrummed with weird energy. He was still coming down from his orgasm, but he was horny again already. He was exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He couldn’t _think_.

“No,” he admitted. “It would suck. After everything … I want to do something that feels like _me_.”

A corner of Otabek’s mouth turned up, and then he rolled forward, pressing a quick, hard kiss to Yuri’s mouth. He sat up, pulling Yuri up with him.

“Good,” he said. “Then let’s do it. Let’s make a program that feels like you. Something that will blow everyone away.”

Upright, he tangled the fingers of one hand in Yuri’s hair and kissed him again. “But first,” he added, “you should clean up and put on some pants. I can’t work with you looking like this.”

Yuri threw his arms around Otabek’s shoulders and laughed. “Then quit kissing me, asshole.”

“Who’s an asshole?” Otabek demanded, reaching for Yuri’s middle, where he now knew that Yuri was ticklish.

Yuri squirmed away and punched him in the shoulder. “ _You_ are, _asshole_.”

Otabek stood up from the bed and took Yuri by the hands, pulling him to his feet. “Hit the showers, Plisetsky,” he said, grabbing his clothes from the floor. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

 

* * *

 

Gala skates, in Yuri’s opinion, were at best a waste of time. What was the point in skating a whole program for no judges, no medals, and no prize money? Worse, some skaters used them as a chance to play at being fucking _comedians_ , dressing like circus clowns and performing to stupid music. It was embarrassing to watch. And they went on for hours, and you had to sit through everyone, even the ice dancers and the local skaters who hadn't even qualified to compete.

At the Skate Canada and the Rostelecom Cup galas, he’d skated in the middle of the pack and then stamped off to the locker rooms, refusing to sit through everyone else’s performances. Now, GPF gold safely in hand and a new program ready to knock everyone on their asses, he at last sat down to watch the full gala with a smile on his face. Plus, Otabek was skating, too, and Yuri didn’t want to miss it.

He watched Otabek’s program from the edge of his seat, feeling something like the way he sometimes felt watching Katsuki’s short program, but different—not all tangled up with resentment and anger. Otabek’s gala costume included a leather jacket almost like his motorcycle jacket. It was fake leather, Otabek had told him, because the real stuff would weigh him down and restrict his arm movements, but it looked the same on the ice, and Yuri was starting to wonder if he was developing a _thing_ about leather and if he should try to shut it down before it became a problem in his brand new sex life.

Yuri ran down to meet Otabek after his skate, throwing himself at Otabek and letting himself be caught in those arms he’d spent much of last night admiring and envying, squeezing tight for a moment before Otabek set him gently down on his feet.

“That was awesome,” Yuri said, grinning and still holding onto him. Then he leaned in close, so that only Otabek could hear. “It was really hot.”

“Really?” Otabek looked surprised, like Yuri hadn’t been climbing him like a tree just last night.

Yuri rolled his eyes. “No shit.” Then he grabbed Otabek’s hand. “Come on, let’s watch the rest.”

There was some ice dancing and pair skating, which didn’t interest him much, and a few more men’s and women’s singles, which were okay. He sneered his way through JJ’s program and, feeling very _agape_ , applauded for Mila and for the girl Crispino, who had helped him find Otabek last night and hadn’t been complete bitches about it.

He was rinkside for Katsuki’s skate and feeling better and better about his life. In his first season as a junior, Yakov had asked him whether he had anything in mind for his exhibition program. Yuri, thirteen and still not allowed to do quads, had immediately demanded to be allowed to do quads, and that had been the end of his contributions to choreography. All his programs since then, competition and otherwise, had been made without his input. He hadn’t minded so much, as long as he kept on winning, which he almost always did. But that was as a junior. He was in the senior division now. He had a gold medal, a world record, and a friend. He had a kick-ass exhibition program that nobody was expecting. He’d had sex. He wasn’t a kid anymore. And he was about to show everyone. He was going to knock them all flat out and leave his mark on the skating world forever.

Then Victor skated onto the ice in the middle of Katsuki’s program, and Yuri clenched the top of the boards like he might rip them apart with his bare hands.

Victor had made—and then _thrown away_ —a career out of surprising people. As a kid Yuri had looked up to him—of course he had, he was a Russian skater too, and nobody who skated in Russia didn’t look up to Victor fucking Nikiforov—but that was before he’d started sharing a rink with Victor and realized what a pain in the ass he was. But pain in the ass or not, Victor was the best skater history. Yuri had been pissed off when Victor went to Japan, but a tiny part of him had also been relieved. With Victor out of competition, no one could stop him from spending his senior debut season shattering every record Victor had ever set. _Yuri_ would be the one to surprise people.

Then Victor had taken up with Yuuri Katsuki, the piggy bastard who flubbed his jumps and got shitfaced at banquets but also danced like a demon and skated so beautifully it made Yuri want to punch something or cry, and had turned him into some kind of skating demigod.

A skating demigod who was now gliding backwards in Victor’s arms on the ice, the two of them looking so goddamn in love Yuri thought he might puke out of sheer rage.

“Those _bastards_ ,” he swore.

Beside him, Otabek was, typically enough, more subdued. “I guess our surprises overlapped.” He looked like he was ready to tell Yuri he was sorry or something, like he was about to give up.

Yuri Plisetsky did _not_ give up.

He grabbed Otabek by the collar of his fake leather jacket and pulled him in close, ignoring Yuuri and Victor executing flawless synchronized quad salchows out on the ice, like they'd been born pair skating. The fever was inside him again, the ache. “You're going to come onto the ice with me,” he demanded. “We’re going to do something even more intense than those two.”

Otabek looked back at the rink, dubiously. “We didn't rehearse anything last night,” he said. “Not like _that_.”

Yuri grinned, blood pounding in his head. “No. But I did get some ideas.”

Now Otabek was nervous. “Yura,” he started. But Yuri cut him off, pulling him closer so he could speak in a low voice over the sound of _Stammi Vicino_ —the fucking _duet_ version, apparently.

“That thing you did last night,” he said. “With your teeth. Do it again.”

Otabek’s eyes were wide and dark. “I did a lot of things with my teeth last night,” he said.

Yuri held up one hand to Otabek's mouth. He was wearing his own pair of fingerless black gloves. He pressed his index finger to Otabek's lips, right where the glove ended.

“Take it off,” he whispered into Otabek's ear. He pulled back enough to see the heat in Otabek's eyes, to see his lips part slightly. His breath was hot on Yuri’s exposed fingers, and when he spoke, his lips just brushed against them.

“Your coach is going to murder us both,” he said.

“He doesn't tell me what to do,” Yuri lied. Well, maybe it wasn't a lie anymore. Things were going to be different now. “So are you gonna do it? Or not?”

He was getting better and better, he realized, at reading Otabek. It was still hard, because Otabek was too cool to spew his emotions all over the place, but Yuri was getting better at it. He knew, before Otabek said or did anything, that he was going to get his way with this, too.

Sure enough, in the next instant Otabek's face changed. Yuri didn't have a name yet for that look, no more than he had for the way Otabek had looked at him at the club last night, but he liked it just as much.

“I'm in,” Otabek said, eyes burning into Yuri’s. “Let's knock everyone flat out.”

And they did.


End file.
